


The Prince(ss) and the Pea

by aislingeach_21



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Boyfriends, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 09:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18206834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislingeach_21/pseuds/aislingeach_21
Summary: Timmy's got the flu. Armie makes soup.Armie’s not sure how Timmy would know if he’d used peas in a broth, but he knows the fallout is far from worth the risk. Besides, he can’t be sure that Timmy doesn’t have some sort of supernatural sixth sense for peas, and he isn’t about to find out. Avoiding the vegetable completely was clearly his only safe option.





	The Prince(ss) and the Pea

**Author's Note:**

> You might have heard about the recent shootings in Christchurch, NZ. That's my hometown.  
> This fic kept me occupied over the weekend that followed. It's not directly related - for the sake of my sanity - but the hurt/comfort helped.

Armie swings open the apartment door slowly, toes off his sneakers and nudges them to the side. Drops his keys on the nearby table and deposits his armful of groceries on the kitchen counter.

He unpacks as quietly as he can, sets about putting certain items away, leaving others out ready for use. He’s just pulling out the big pot from the corner cupboard when he hears a quiet shuffling behind him.

“Where’d you go?”

It’s Timmy. In one of Armie’s old t-shirts, grey sweatpants low on his hips, socked feet slightly muffled against the wooden floor. His curls sweat damp and greasy, matted against his head, held in place by a soft pink beanie. Over his shoulders he’s draped the duvet from their bed, a makeshift cape or burrito wrap, protecting its fallen hero or keeping its tender filling warm. Maybe both.

Armie straightens, places the pot on the stove, fills it with water, and turns the element on.

“I got groceries.”

Timmy sniffs. “Why?”

“To make soup.”

He starts chopping carrots, feels Timmy snuggle up against his back, resting his head on his shoulder blade.

“Why?”

Armie puts the knife down and turns to face a red-nosed Timmy. Gathers him in his arms, presses a gentle kiss to his hot forehead.

“Because you’re sick, baby.”

They stand secure in their embrace for a minute or two. Armie leaning against the countertop, and Timmy in turn leaning against him. A quiet gurgling coming from the pot where the water is now simmering.

Timmy sighs, “But you were gone so long.” 

His voice is thick, his throat coated in phlegm. It’s day three of his illness and he’s finally admitted defeat, allowing Armie to take care of him. A rather abrupt about face from his determined denial from two days earlier.

“I promise you I was as quick as I could be. I told you I was going, didn’t I?”

Armie feels slight shoulders shrug beneath his hold.

“You weren’t here when I woke up.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But I wanted to make sure I had everything I’d need to make you soup. Ok?”

He doesn’t get much more than a hum in response.

“Why don’t you go rest in bed while I finish cooking?” Armie says, smoothing a hand down Timmy’s duvet covered back.

“Wanna stay here with you,” Timmy mumbles into his chest.

Armie should’ve expected this. Timmy’s always clingy whenever he’s sick. It’s mostly endearing until Armie gets frustrated at his own lack of control over the situation, his lack of ability to fix things for his ill lover – partly because Armie can’t actually control illnesses, and partly because Armie can’t say ‘no’ to a pleading Timmy.

“Ok, but you’ll have to sit on a bar stool because I can’t cook and cuddle you at the same time.”

Timmy nods dopily as he makes his way around to the other side of the breakfast bar. Armie’s gaze follows him as he settles himself, ready to move at a moment’s notice if he at all looks like he’s going to topple over.

The next few minutes Armie focusses and does his best to get the soup underway in as little time as possible, glancing at his poorly charge every so often. He loses track of time in his concentrated state, and when he next looks Timmy’s way he finds him slumped over, dozing atop his folded arms, drooling a little on the kitchen counter.

Armie can’t help but smile. Regardless of Timmy’s current state of health he’s still cute, still a wonder, still a joy. It’s tugging badly at Armie’s heartstrings – he’s so gone for this boy.

He shakes Timmy’s shoulder, wakes him with a whisper of his name.

“Come on baby, let’s go to bed.”

Timmy insists on being tucked right in – he’s cold, even though he burning hot to Armie’s  
touch. He also insists on being held as close as humanly possible, his clammy face heating up the underside of Armie’s jaw.

“Soup?”

“Soon.” Armie noses at Timmy’s beanie covered head. “Rest now.”

“M’kay.”

Whilst Timmy snuffles and quietens, Armie watches him, takes him in. His patchy stubble, the petal pink of his sickness induced flush, the sweat that glistens upon his top lip. Armie breathes deeply, can smell that scent that he knows all too well – Timmy, unshowered for what’s got be a third day by now.

It’s a little gross, but when it comes to Timmy, Armie’s not fussy. He’d have him any way he could. And right now he’s got him while he’s sick. 

He glances down and sees that Timmy has drifted off. It’s the perfect opportunity for Armie to get back to the kitchen, provided he can get away without Timmy noticing. He looks at Timmy in his blanket cocoon – a slight buffer for his actions, and with relatively practised ease he slips out.

Just as he reaches the hallway, a sleepy voice calls out.

“Don’t leave.”

He tiptoes back towards the bed. “I won’t.” Kisses Timmy’s still closed eyes before exiting the room.

The vegetable broth is coming along nicely when he checks it. Armie takes some time to tidy up after himself – cleaning down the benchtops and doing the dishes. He tastes the soup, quickly does a final seasoning before tasting it once more, and dishes up a half bowl.

He stands at the doorway, watches his sleeping beauty. Swaddled in the blanket, Timmy’s face is barely visible. From this angle Armie can just make out his rosy cheeks, and his open mouth allowing for the safe passage of oxygen into his struggling system – his stuffy nose no doubt out of commission. Armie’s tempted to take a photo, but maybe just this once he’ll let it slide.

Placing the bowl on the bedside table, Armie perches on the side of the bed. He pulls the beanie off of Timmy’s head, runs his fingers through his hair, massages his scalp. It’s hardly the cleanest it’s ever been, but Timmy hums at his actions nonetheless.

“Wake up sleepyhead, soup’s ready.”

Timmy’s nose scrunches adorably. “What kind?”

“Vegetable broth. Like you asked.”

He helps Timmy sit up, places a spare pillow behind his back, and grabs the bowl from the nightstand.

Timmy eyes the bowl dubiously. “No peas?”

“No peas, baby.”

Armie’s not sure how Timmy would know if he’d used peas in a broth, but he knows the fallout is far from worth the risk. Besides, he can’t be sure that Timmy doesn’t have some sort of supernatural sixth sense for peas, and he isn’t about to find out. Avoiding the vegetable completely was clearly his only safe option.

Carefully, he feeds Timmy. Spoon by spoon. Timmy lets him, knows there’s no use fighting Armie’s need to look after him, not when it satisfies his own need to be looked after by Armie – something he denies each time until he can deny no more. There are no complaints, so Armie figures the soup is, at its very least, satisfactory.

Soon enough the bowl empties and Timmy lets out a small burp followed by a sheepish giggle. 

Armie laughs with him. “Do you feel better now with something in your tummy?”

“Mmhmm,” comes Timmy’s bashful reply. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He gestures with the bowl. “I’ll just put this in the kitchen. Back in a sec.”

When Armie returns – a glass of water and flu meds in hand – he finds Timmy in tears. He hurries over, worried at the unknown cause of the boy’s upset.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

Timmy’s desperately trying to catch his breath, hiccoughing uncontrollably with each intake, his words garbled and indecipherable, even to Armie’s well-trained ear. He reaches out blindly for Armie, seeking comfort, and Armie scrambles to provide, pulling him into his arms, running a hand up and down his back, hoping the rhythm helps Timmy settle.

“Just breath Tim, come on. You can do it.”

Armie grabs one of Timmy’s hands, places it on his chest so he can feel its rise and fall, something to match his own with.

“You’re ok love, easy does it.”

Over the next couple minutes Timmy’s breathing evens out, Armie’s soft murmurings a safe shelter and positive focus to pull him out of his distress. Timmy wriggles a little and Armie loosens his hold. 

Timmy’s eyes are wide and watery, his lashes fluttering wetly with each blink up at Armie. 

“You made me soup.”

For some reason this sets him off again, eye refilling with fresh tears. Tears Armie catches with his thumbs, wiping them away from under Timmy’s red-rimmed eyes.

Surely his soup is not the reason Timmy’s crying. It was good, wasn’t it? He’d eaten it all. And Armie was sure to leave out any peas. But if it’s not the soup, that means it’s something else, and Armie’s lost as to what that could be. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he’s been too wrapped up in his own world to have any idea of what’s going on for the two of them in their coupledom. Shit.

Timmy hiccoughs. “Y-You’re too good to me.”

Armie looks at him in disbelief. “What?”

“You look after me, you t-take care of me.” Timmy won’t meet his eyes, instead he plays with a loose thread he’s found at the hem of his t-shirt. Armie’s t-shirt.

“Of course I do. But you do the same for me.”

Timmy shakes his head, bottom lip quivering. “I d-don’t deserve you.”

If he were capable of being angry at Timmy he would be, but so far, he’s found that to be an impossibility. There’s not much he knows for certain in this life, but one thing is that this boy deserves everything, and then some.

“Oh honey, if anything it’s the other way around. You think I do so much for you, but you forget that you do so much for me.”

“I do?” Timmy gives him a look of uncertainty.

“You do. I would be nothing without you Tim.” Armie takes Timmy’s hand, circles the peaks of his knuckles with his thumb. “If I could give you the world I would, and even then that wouldn’t go anywhere towards returning the favour. You put up with so much of my bullshit and yet you still love me. All I can offer you is my love and hope that that is enough.”

“It is, it’s more than enough,” Timmy insists.

Armie pulls Timmy into his lap. Kisses him sweetly, one, two, three times, before Timmy seems to freeze and pulls away frowning.

“What is it?” Armie squeezes a bony knee, concerned his actions may have had a negative effect.

Timmy brings a hand to his mouth, bites the tip of his index finger. “You’ll get sick.”

“I don’t care.” He kisses the cheek that is nearest to him.

Timmy plays nervously with the chest hair peeking out from the ‘v’ of Armie’s t-shirt. “I’m all sweaty and snotty.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” Each word emphasised by an emphatic press of lips to lips.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Timmy must believe him because he leans in for a soft, lingering kiss, a whispered ‘love you’ left on his lips as he retreats and nuzzles into Armie’s neck. They sit there in silence for a while, until Timmy’s illness makes itself known once more and Armie’s just about had enough of the constant sniffing by his ear.

Armie reaches for a tissue, gives it to Timmy who promptly blows his nose, sighing in relief. He pats Timmy on the bottom, as if to nudge him into action. 

“Why don’t you take your meds, we’ll have a snooze, and when we wake up, I’ll run you a bath.”

“A bath for two?”

“Maybe, if you’re lucky.” 

Armie knows getting the two of them together in the bath is a complicated jigsaw: too many limbs and not enough bath. He has learned that elbows and knees hurt, and not even the added protection of his bulk can shield him from Timmy’s flailing appendages. He also knows first-hand how drenched he’ll get if he tries to bathe Timmy – he might have to just pick the lesser of two evils here. Realistically he could do without another Timmy meltdown – he’s more sensitive in his weakened state, if that’s possible.

“Hmmm, well I sure hope I get lucky.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m sick remember?” Timmy shifts off his lap, pops two tablets from the blister pack and swallows them with a large mouthful of water. He fakes a cough and looks up at Armie with big round eyes, wholly innocent except for the tiniest glint – Armie knows it all too well. “You’re supposed to take care of me.”

Shaking his head, Armie lifts the bedcovers, ushers Timmy into the cosy warmth, and scoots in to spoon behind the smaller man. He sweeps the curls at Timmy’s nape to the side, brushes his lips tenderly against hot skin, and runs the tip of his nose along the shell of his ear.

“Yea I’ll take real good care of you baby, don’t you worry about it.”

Timmy giggles as Armie kisses him, once more – for luck.

**Author's Note:**

> I was lucky last Friday, many were not. To donate to the Christchurch Shooting Victims' Fund click [here](https://givealittle.co.nz/cause/christchurch-shooting-victims-fund).
> 
> Let me know what you think! Come find me on Tumblr - I'm [aislingeach-21](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aislingeach-21) X


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